The Bermuda Trap
by Keira4
Summary: A little boy without a father. A woman without a husband. A husband who's missing. A friend who wants to be more. A woman who isn't sure about her friend. A little boy who needs to know.
1. Default Chapter

I'm not sure when I realized he wasn't coming back. It could have been when I no longer paced by the front window when there was word of survivors leaving "confined quarters."

I figured, well, maybe when Ron finally came back, torn, battered, scarred and exhausted . . . then Harry'd come back soon after, also battered, scarred again, exhausted--but _alive_.

But he _didn't_.

This realization could have sunk in when James was born, and Ginny and Ron were the only ones at the hospital. Or maybe, and most likely, it was when James asked why he had to take his uncle to the father-son barbeque. That was, in all probability, the moment I missed him the most.

It was a beautiful July afternoon. The park was only several blocks from the house, so Draco and James took advantage of the weather and traveled on foot. James sat contentedly in the red wagon as Draco pulled him down the sidewalk to the park. When they came back, he asked me.

"Mummy," said James, looking determined to get an answer this time.

"Hmm?" I replied with a mouth full of lemonade. I sat my glass back down on the patio table, and looked at him.

"Why do all the other kids get to bring their dads to the picnic, and I don't? Why does Uncle Draco have to come with me?"

He was so innocent, so calm, so cute with his dark brown eyes and his black hair all messyjustlikehisfather's . . .

_Breathe . . . you have to breathe, and then you have to get your sorry act together and tell your son about his father. Look at him! He doesn't even understand! How can you let him not understand his father, his father's story, what could have been _his_ story if his father hadn't saved him. . . ?_

Fired with emotion, I gathered my son in my arms and rocked him, crying. Footsteps fell on the freshly stained deck; squeaky footsteps. Draco's shoes must have had rubber soles. A cool breeze whispered through the poplars in the backyard.

Draco's tentative voice rang throughout the silence. "Hermione? Is everything alright?" Through my blurred vision, I glimpsed a sliver of pale hair, out of place from its usual position behind his ears. James was warm and comforting in my arms, but he pushed my hand to one side and looked at me with concern.

"Mum, why are you crying? I just asked you a question," he said, puzzled, as he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. James' serious brown eyes held my gaze as my vision cleared and my tears halted. He really was a combination of the both of us. Messy, jet black hair shot out in every direction, long black eye lashes framed his dark, velvety brown eyes, the kind of colour every child's teddy bear should be. A sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his determined nose, which was placed squarely in the centre of his face, gave him the exact appearance of his father when he smiled.

"Please, Mummy, don't cry. I don't have to know-" began James in a quick, worried tone. But I cut him off. I had delayed telling him for so long. Harry would have been so angry with me. His only son not knowing his story. It was either now or, or, or . . . when?

When would I pick up the courage to get Harry's story out of my system, to tell his only son his legacy. No, legacy wasn't right. Harry wouldn't have cared for that particular word. Legacy implies great deeds done for humanity, to help save the world. It was Harry in a nutshell, for those who didn't know him. But it just _wasn't_ Harry. Harry didn't want to be the hero. Harry didn't want to be the adored, loved, champion. Harry didn't want to be at the front of public events all the time. But he was dealt the card. Fate likes to deal difficult hands. Harry's was almost impossible.

He just didn't fit with . . . legacy.

"C'mon, James, let's go get your mum some more lemonade. She'll tell you when we get back," intervened Draco, grasping James with one hand, and my lemonade glass in the other. He steered him through the patio doors, into the kitchen.

Alone, I collected myself, or tried to. I delved down, trying to remember the last time I had seen Harry, the last time I had touched him, held him, trying to fabricate his memory to help me now.

But how could I remember what I could never forget?

He had said he'd be back soon. He told me he loved me repeatedly, trying to justify leaving me; I knew why he was leaving, why he might not come back, why he had to . . . yet it didn't matter. He was my soul mate, if you believe in that kind of thing. My other half. Without him, attempts to be complete failed with wretched misery. With him, I was complete . . . and now it hurt to say his name. . . .

Taking several deep breaths, I readied myself for the confrontation with my son. I had put it away for so long. Away, where I thought we'd be safe. The last time I had willingly faced Harry's absence was the third year anniversary of his disappearance. And even then, I had shrouded myself in my glass case in an attempt to become impenetrable. Shiny, gleaming and transparent.

Glass is _breakable_.

It is destroyed with devastating consequences. Broken glass can kill, maim, injure. . . cut hands, cut feet, face, blind. But no. No injuries. No scars. Break the glass and expose truth. My son had just shattered that case, so delicately built up over the past six years. A five-year old had broken my resolution when even my best friend couldn't. That _five-year old_ had brought my reality back in sharp focus.

"Hermione?" It was Draco. I jumped in my chair, shaken from my own selfish thoughts. I had a son, and here I was wallowing in thoughts about how I would cope. What about how _he_ would cope?

"Hmmm?" I breathed, looking slightly dazed as I glanced up at Draco's face, awashed with worry.

"He's in the bathroom. Are you alright?" Upon sitting down, he continued in a gentle tone. "You must've known you'd have to tell him sometime. He's old enough to handle it. He'll take it like his father."

I smiled at the reference to Harry, and my eyes seared with new tears. "Yes, I'm fine now. I've just been trying to . . . to think about what Harry would have wanted. . . . what I want . . . and what James _needs_. It's just so hard to try to tell James what Harry is – was -" At this, I couldn't go on. My throat swelled with emotion and confusion. It was so hard to know what to do when you didn't know what was happening. . . .

"Oh, Hermione," was all that he said as his arms enveloped me in a fierce hug. "You know you've got us all for help. Just send the word, and we'll be there."

He smelt good. Clean. Like soap, but a little stronger. Some kind of nice aftershave. I threw Harry's out four years ago.

I pushed back my tears with a sigh and answered. "Draco, it was just the _way_ he said it that sent me over. He was so innocent, so calm. I can't believe that he doesn't know. . . . "

Releasing me from his embrace, Draco held me at arm's length, his hands still on my shoulders. And then he looked me straight in the eye. "Hermione, you have a son. As you've said before, he _is_ your responsibility, but you know you always have people to help you. Now, you know what you have to do. Go do it. Harry's counting on you." I nodded, resolving not to cry in front of James again, blinking my eyes clear.

The scampering of feet told us that James was on the deck before we even saw him. No squeaky footsteps this time: James had sandals on.

"Mum, come with me. I want to swing," he said insistently, tugging on my shirt. I nodded, a sad smile on my face as I turned to follow my baby boy off the stairs and across the lawn to his swing set. He was already sitting down, trying to gain momentum by himself. Unfortunately, to no avail.

"Push me, Mum. Push me!" he shrieked, laughing as he kicked his legs from front to back. A worn pattern in the sandbox showed just how much he used the swing set. One his father wasn't there to help pick out, build, install or paint. One his father would probably never see. Crouching down beside him, I took one of his small hands in mine. It was rough from playing in the sandbox, catching gnomes at the Burrow, scraping on the street while playing tag with his friends.

Fighting to control myself, I bit my lip and forced myself to look my son in the eyes. I took a deep breath, released it, and promptly followed through with my resolution. To tell James everything that happened.

"Jamie, sweetheart, you know what you were talking about before?" I began with my voice wavering slightly.

He nodded with a curious look upon his face.

"About your dad? Well, I'm going to tell you everything about him now, is that alright?" James nodded once again, this time to show his approval.

"James . . . your father was Harry Potter," I started, hoping that I'd be able to continue so matter-of-factly. "He was involved in a very great battle against a very, very bad man named Voldemort. Do you know who he is?" My son shook his head now, and continued to gaze at me with rapt attention. "Well, he was an awfully mean person who didn't like Muggles. And your dad and many other people wanted to change that. Your Uncle Draco was one of them." At this, I found a hand placed on my shoulder, steadying me, giving me reason to go on. "Now, before you were born there was a time when your dad and Uncle Draco and Uncle Ron and Uncle George went off and fought against this evil man. And they won-" I bit my lip hard, trying desperately to keep the tears from dripping down my face. _He can't see me cry. He can't see me cry. Not about Harry, not about Harry, think of Harry, think of Harry. . . . _

Draco's hand squeezed my shoulder, and I swallowed my tears and continued. "They won, and some of them returned home. Your Uncle Fred didn't, sweetheart. He was a wonderful person. He died in battle, and he's buried with the rest of the fallen. Uh . . . would you like to go visit him sometime?"

A frown made his forehead crease. "How can we visit him if he's dead?"

"Well, we can go and see where he's buried and bring him flowers. Or talk to him. Whatever you like, Jamie," I answered patiently, trying not to dissolve into tears.

"Okay. But not today."

"That's fine sweetheart. Just fine. Now, there were some people who fought in battle and were never found."

"Are they dead too?" asked James, his interest peaking. I took another deep breath.

"I don't know Jamie. I just . . . don't know. Your dad was one of those people who fought, but was never found," I finished, relieved to have finally said it.

James considered this, gazing at his feet for a minute, his mind probably thinking something--about _him_, or _me_. Finally, he looked up at me and replied very carefully, "So, is Daddy dead?"

I closed my eyes tightly, wishing with the fiercest of all hopes possible that Harry could be here. Right then. And never leave me again. I wished I could at least _know._ But I couldn't. No one could. I wasn't asking to know everything, just one thing. Just one, simple question as to whether Harry was alive or not. But that's life. It shoves shit at you and makes you deal. _Get over it, move on. Questions are always going to be there. Just let it go, Hermione. _

"I don't know, sweetheart. No one knows. He's never been found."

"So, what's going to happen to him?" asked James once again, a child-like innocence gleaming off of him. All I could do was shrug. And then I sat down in the sand and began to cry.


	2. Chapter 1

When I woke up, the events of yesterday slapped me in the face as I felt a warm, small body snuggle next to me. James. Harry. The truth about his father.

Not wanting to wake my son, I stayed in bed, contemplating what I was to do next. It was like some ridiculous game of chess; I was playing for two. Playing for two is senseless. Not only senseless, but unreasonable. When you play for two, you keep beating yourself. And it's never fun winning over yourself, because in the end you're still a loser. Sad, victorious, hopeless, distraught, caught in the middle, but still a loser. And what were you going for in the first place? You're still a loser. _Loser._ Hopelessly banging your head against a mirror. Reflecting your inabilities, your mistakes, your losing battle, your endless fight against impossible triumph. . . .

After I had collapsed in the sandbox, Draco had taken James, fed him supper, and put him to bed. He hadn't wanted to agitate my already shaken state, so I cried in the sandbox for half an hour. When James was safely tucked in bed, Draco pulled me out of my anguish and got me into the house, and then I sent him home. He had to work the next day, and I didn't want him staying with me just because I was being emotional. I refused to be thought of as someone too frail to handle a job by myself. Co-dependency. That's the word. I didn't want to depend on anyone. Anyone. _Anyone._ Other than Harry, that is.

"If I'm having a hard time, I'll call Ginny," I told Draco, trying to get him out of the house.

"Or Ron," he reminded, a slight scowl crossing his face. Given what had happened and what used to be, it went without saying that Draco and Ron had a rather . . . _complicated_ relationship.

"Or Ron," I repeated, giving a stiff smile. My eyes were extremely puffy and red; tears had left streaks down my face, and my eyelashes were glued together. It sort of made it hard to blink. It also made my eyes twitchy. And Draco already thought I was unstable without the twitchiness.

"You sure you're okay?" asked Draco once again, too bloody concerned that it made me want to tear his pretty hair out and tell him that he needed to get his own life and that I needed to get my own life and that I had to grow up and move on and get past Harry . . . but I couldn't. "I could get someone else to stay the night-"

My tongue was thick. "No. I'll be fine by myself," I answered stoutly, placing my hands on my hips. "I've got to deal with this with James by myself. You've got your own problems to manage."

"Name one."

I studied my feet. I had taken my shoes off before I came to push Draco out. His shoes were new; Adidas, or something like that. Reebok. Strange to see Draco in Muggle clothes. His jeans were new too. They had that worn-in look, but you could tell they hung with a strange crispness off his rather angled frame. Same with his sweater. Black. Preppy-like diamonds interlaced across the front. They were grey. His face, however, was . . . indescribable.

"Your father."

"Right. Okay, name one that counts," he answered, putting his weight on one leg and rubbing his forehead.

I rolled my eyes. "Go home. I'll look after my son." He had turned to stroll down the front walk when I called out again. "Draco," I said softly, leaning against the doorjamb.

"Hmm?" His expression was hard to discern in the fading light. The flowers surrounding the front door were oozing fragrance, beckoning to be adored. Harry had never liked strong scents. This would have been too strong for him. Too much. Too intense. Too much competition. . . .

"Could you . . . could you go down to the Ministry tomorrow? Just to see if there's anything new, or . . . any word on . . . ." I trailed off, looking upward, swallowing hard. I took a deep breath and finished, "--survivors."

He gave me a curt nod and turned a final time and left. I watched him fade out of sight and shut and bolted the door. There wasn't a chance, but I would take it anyway.

James moved away from me in his sleep, seizing another innocent pillow and sighing. He smiled as he found a new comfort with the cool pillow, and hugged his teddy bear tighter. I slipped out of bed, tucking the white duvet cover back into a manageable semblance. Padding into the kitchen, I flipped on the kitchen lights and turned on the kettle, pulling my mug and teabag out of the cupboard.

Leaning against the stove, I ran my right index finger over the fourth one on my left hand. I had put away my wedding band on our third anniversary. May third. Six years ago. And six years tomorrow from his disappearance.

_Six years_ I thought. _Six years. James is entering kindergarten this fall. Harry won't be here to see it. Ron and Ginny and Draco and Mum and Dad--they will all see it . . . but . . . but . . ._

_. . . not Harry. _

I jumped as the kettle clicked; it had finished boiling. After steeping thrice used, no longer bleeding, herbal teabag, I stirred it and blew over the surface. It rippled.

_Ripples. Just like what Harry left. Ripples in the lives of everyone he knew, everyone he didn't know. Ripples that tore and left gaping holes and sort of ripped the fabric that wove our lives together and shredded the emotional balance that held his friends and family so tightly rigid, so straight in our belief that he would come home . . ._

_. . . safe . . ._

_But they're only ripples in water. WATER. It doesn't mean anything, it's not supposed to mean anything, it's not supposed to mean anything, it's not SUPPOSED TO MEAN ANYTHING . . ._

I sat at the kitchen table, soaking the warmth of the mug into my hands. The weeds were starting to take over. I'd have to rid the garden of them this morning. And in the afternoon, I'd take James to see Dean (whom he had developed a strange attachment to) and see George about that position he offered me before. I could manage the business. But that was for later.

As I drew up a griddle in mid-air with my wand, a soft whine slid around the corner, followed by James, dragging a teddy bear and a tattered blanket.

"Sleep well?" I asked, watching him rub his eyes.

"S-s-sorta," he yawned, pulling himself and his entourage up onto the chair.

"Pancakes okay?"

"Mhmm."

"Mummy's got to work outside in the garden this morning. Is that okay?"

"Okay. Can I play in the yard?"

"Sure thing, sweetie," I answered as two pancakes floated over to his plate and doused themselves in syrup and butter.

We ate in a sort of stuffy silence; it was neither tense nor comfortable. The clock on the mantle hissed a mocking _tick, tock, tick, tock_ in an endless rhythm. It was a wedding present from . . . my aunt. We decided to leave it as a Muggle clock – neither of us wanted to change it to a wizard one such as the Weasley's had. Lord only knows where Harry would be right now. Speaking of the Weasley's, what _had _they given us for a wedding present? For the life of me, I couldn't remember. Something practical, of course, and obviously magical . . . oh! the self-cleaning silverware. Wonderful stuff. Finds its own place in the drawer too. Finally, James broke the silence.

"Mum," he said, looking at his empty plate, which I promptly filled again.

"Yes?"

"Daddy was born in July, right?"

_Tick._

"Yes he was. July 31st."

"And . . . what happened to his Mum and Dad?"

_Tick._

"You know that evil man I told you about?"

He nodded. "Vold –, Volme -, Volup-" struggled James, trying to recall his name.

I cut him off. "Voldemort. They were murdered by Voldemort. That's how your Dad got his scar. The one on his forehead?"

"Oh yeah! The one I saw in the picture? On your table?"

"Yes sweetie. You should know this, too, though. He tried to kill your dad, too, when he was just a baby. But he didn't succeed."

James tilted his head onto his left shoulder. "What does succeed mean?"

I observed his query with mild interest. "Succeed means to win or achieve – achieve means get, honey – something you've been working towards or something you wanted."

"Then Voldemort – was that right?" asked James, and I nodded "Voldemort wanted Daddy dead?"

_Tick._

"Yes Jamie."

"But why?"

_Tick._

"I don't know, Jamie."

_Tick, Tick._

"So Volde-me-mort's gone forever?"

_TickTick._

"Yes."

_TickTickTickTick._

Jamie's lip quivered. "And he won't come after me?"

_Tick, tick, tick, tickticktockticktock-_

"No James. I will never let anyone hurt you. Especially not Voldemort because he is not coming back."

"Good."

"Any other questions?"

_TICK_.

"Can we go to the park today?"

I smiled, relief gushing with the expression. "I believe that can be arranged."

My rose garden had turned out rather spectacularly this year. Garden was the wrong word; hedge was more like it. Yes, my rose hedge was very impressive. We had no back fence, the roses blocked out the backyard of the neighbour behind us.

James was trying to construct a tunnel within a mound of sand he had piled in one corner. A few toy figurines were scattered about the wooden box, and one swing was wrapped around a support post. The plastic yellow slide was covered in damp sand and decorated with a skipping rope, Frisbee, and football.

I watched my son try to build his tunnel, smiling at the lopsided structure, bound for catastrophe. Right now, his 'sand castle' resembled somewhat of a muddy snow hill. He was going to start school in September. I'd be alone. My little boy was growing up. _Our _little boy was growing up.

"Mum," he called out, exasperated, flopping his arms back down into the sand, "I need help."

Glancing around, making sure no one was looking, I hurried over and cast a quick spell onto the mound of sand. Instantly, it shifted itself into a magnificent sand castle, complete with turrets, tunnels, a moat, drawbridge and moving figurines.

"Mummy!" he shrieked. "It's perfect!" He threw his arms around my neck, pressing his face into my shoulder.

"Glad you like it," I whispered back.


	3. Chapter 3

It was cool when James and I set out for the park. Unseasonably cool. But little could be done about the temperature, and Jamie was never shy of cold.

We walked through the same gate Draco and James had the previous afternoon. The smell of grilling hamburgers almost lingered. The grass was trampled where a pell-mell game of football had taken place. The goals, piles of sticks, were still visible, standing sort of like how Roman aqueducts stand as testaments to their great empire. A football game in the park wasn't exactly an empire.

Jamie made a bee-line for the swings. They were his favourite. He didn't shriek to be pushed this time, but I did provide a soft shove for my five-year-old, and then I sat down on the swing beside him.

_Swing. Swing. Swing through space, through time, through lives, through minds, through hearts, through memories. Swing through _my_ space. Swing through _my_ time. Swing through_ my _life. Swing through _my _heart. Swing through _my_ memories. That's what he did. That's what he's doing. A never ending, swinging pendulum, motion, propelling gently forwards . . . and slowly coming to a stop. _

"Mummy. _Mummy._ Did you hear me?"

I shook my head. "Wh-what sweetie?"

James rolled his eyes. "_Push_ me Mum. Push me 'cause Uncle Draco isn't here. Besides, he can't push as well as you can."

I stood up absently and sent James swinging again.

Draco. Yes, that was an odd coincidence. The son of the boy (now man)-who-lived, finding solace, a father figure, and an uncle in his father's most favourite enemy. Odd indeed. Some would call it insanely backwards verging on obsessive and a possible lead for Voldemort's supporters to infiltrate the close-knit Potter family and crush their lives. . . or not.

It wasn't as though it didn't stress the hell out of all of those fighting against Voldemort. They were never very sure of Draco, given his past and his father (who was, at the time, openly supporting Voldemort). It was just . . . I always knew he would be loyal, when he came to tell me at the Ministry one night that he was switching sides, and would remain our informant for a few more days, as long as possible. Wednesday, it was. In June. About Eleven-thirty, I think . . .

"_Hermione, you've got the report about Bethnal Green's recent raid?" _

_I looked up from my work, into the face of Bill Weasley, the senior undersecretary to the Minister. Not a job I'd ever picked Bill for, but he did what was necessary. "Yes I do, it's right here," I replied, patting a thick folder on the left side of my desk._

"_Good. If you could drop it off with Darmidy before you go, that'd be great."_

_My face fell slightly. "Oh. So, I'm _not_ assigned that one?"_

_Bill frowned and licked his lips, thinking carefully about what he was going to say. "No. Dumbledore's said that. . . ."_

_I buried my head in my hands as Bill trailed off. We remained silent for several minutes. "Why," I paused, choosing my words, "why am I singled out because I'm pregnant? Because I'm carrying a child I am therefore stuck here, on desk duty, pushing papers and feeling useless? It's not as though I couldn't fight with you! It's not as though I'm unable to help at the hospital, or teach at Hogwarts in replacement, or, or, do _something_ useful! I just want to feel needed. And now," I started to slow down, glancing around the office. "Now I feel insignificant and unappreciated. I'm not some vegetable who can't hold herself together! I need something to do, something with a use. Something other than push bloody papers around this bloody office."_

_I remained staring at my desk after my outburst, thinking about how good it felt to let someone know that. _

"_Hermione," offered Bill quietly, leaning against the door jamb. "I know how frustrating it can be to just sit by and watch. I know what you mean about not being able to do anything. But-"_

"_I can't even watch!" I exclaimed, standing up and stomping my foot against the hardwood floor. "It's so unfair! I can't talk to Harry, write to him, let alone _see_ him. What possesses people--"_

_Bill interrupted me with a motion from his hand. "Hear me out, Hermione." I nodded, and he continued. "Yes, you are carrying a child. But whose child? Harry Potter's child. This child is now the second-worst enemy of Voldemort. Did you ever stop to consider the complications that could arise if you were to be taken hostage? What about killed on the battlefield? Or, faced with an impossible task to choose whose life you would rather save: your child's or your husband's. Try to pick that. Better yet, put yourself in Harry's shoes. Think about how distracted he would be if you were to be there with him, fighting along side him. He wouldn't only be worried about you, he'd be worried about your baby too. Right now, he needs a clear mind in order to win this. He needs you to be safe, to be at home, to be something he can think about coming back to."_

_The silence echoed around the room. I finally looked up and met Bill's steady blue eyes. "I never thought of it quite that way. I never think of . . . of Harry . . . that way."_

"_None of us do. But Voldemort does. And most of the population of the wizarding world does."_

"_But what am I supposed to do? I can't just be here, I'm bored out of my mind, my head hurts more than it ever has, I've had to avoid reporters left, right and centre because they dog me everywhere I go, it's just . . . just--" I trailed off, drained of emotions, my head spinning. "I'm sorry. That was selfish and unfair. I shouldn't have put you in the position to respond to that."_

_Bill continued to gaze at me for several moments. "We've all got to get it out sometime. Just keep truckin', Hermione. Just keep truckin'." He nodded his head in my direction, and waved slightly. I waved back, standing stiffly where I had stood up. Slipping my coat on, I scooped up the folder on my desk and hit the lights. I thought over what Bill had said as I walked down to Darmidy Mclean's office, one floor below mine. _

_That was the last time I saw Bill alive._

_After dropping off the folder, I turned right and headed down the stairs to the elevator. There was a landing half way down the staircase, and the corner was thrown in shadow as all of the lights had been automatically turned off at 10:00. As my hand slid down the railing, and I prepared to step down from the landing, someone grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the shadow, muffling my mouth at the same time. _

_I saw a shock of pale hair and then I knew. Then I knew he was there for only one of two reasons: to switch alliances, or to kill me. _

"_Please don't shout," he began quickly, his voice very low. "I'm on your side now. But you must take me to see Dumbledore now. He has to know. He'll be the only one to believe me other than you."_

_Fear and astonishment still shone in my eyes as I gazed into his face, older, smarter, tired and strained. I pulled his hand away from my mouth._

"_Come with me. I'll owl Dumbledore, and you can Apparate there after. But really, it's late and I have to go home quickly."_

_I turned back to go upstairs, and was at the top of the landing before I realized he wasn't following me. "What?" I hissed, beckoning for him to follow. "You'd better come quick, before somebody sees you." _

_He stood there, not moving. "Why'd you believe me like that? Why'd you just automatically accept the fact that I've switched _sides_? That my life is now at risk from everyone! Why--"_

_I sighed and shook my head. "I just did. Now, let's get going." _

_Draco loped up the steps and walked beside me, back to my office. That was the end. That was the beginning. _

They were always protective. Of me. And of James. The few that saw me after my encounter with Bill smiled at me with more compassion. But they still couldn't understand. No, I was never there to see the blood, the death, the utter destruction. I was at home, waiting for word. I was at work, filing reports on Underage Wizardry and Muggle artefacts. _They_ never understood what it felt like to be helplessly protected against something you weren't allowed to fight.

Not many of _them_ came back uninjured.

Not many of _them _died.

But some did.

Some did, and I never even got to say goodbye.

Fred

Seamus

Lavender

Anthony

Hannah

Neville

Fleur

Bill

Angelina

. . . Harry.

James was still swinging. That damn swing. Every single swipe it took tore a little bit more of my heart out. I'd be lucky if I didn't die of premature heart failure at, like. . . thirty-three. But I was six years off that mark. I'd only be turning twenty-seven a little after James went back to school. Damn school. I'd be home all day long. All day long, in the house Harry and I bought together, in the house Harry had never lived in for more than two weeks at a time. I had fallen in love with it the moment I saw it.

As the swing came to a stop, James sighed, misery written across his face.

"What's wrong Jamie?" I asked quickly, kneeling down beside him and taking one of his small hands in mine.

He bent his head, staring into his lap for a moment. "It's just, well, you seem busy. Somewhere else. Ever since I asked you last night about Daddy. I don't want to worry you, and I know it's soon until he disappeared, and I don't want you to be sad about it anymore, so I was thinking up a way to make you happy. You like flowers, don't you? I thought maybe Uncle Ron and Auntie Ginny could come for supper, and we could play games, and watch a movie. You know, that silly one that Uncle Ron likes. The one with-"

I had stopped listening; here was my five-year-old, trying to come up with ways to make me happy. My throat was dry. I brushed a tear back before answering carefully.

"You--you noticed that?"

He nodded. "Mm-hm. And I don't want to hurt you, because I know that Daddy hurt you because he's not here, and I don't want you to cry about me like you cry about Daddy, so--"

"James, I will never cry about you. Never. Because you're never going to leave me like your Dad did," I answered with a false confidence, crouching down to his level so I could look into his eyes. "And your Dad never hurt me. He was best husband I could have ever had. He would have been a really good dad too," I finished, the image of Harry floating through my mind.

His brown eyes were very serious. "I know Mum, I just--"

"I know sweetie. I know," I said softly, interrupting him. "I know what you mean. And I think it's time we went home."

James nodded silently and took my outstretched hand.

I had planned to go and see George this afternoon, but those plans quickly fell aside. James wanted (_needed_, he claimed) to visit his grandparents. He hadn't seen them for well over a month. We lived in the same city. Almost the same neighbourhood. But neither of us made the effort to visit.

To put it mildly, I had severed all ties with my parents after Harry went missing. Of course, I saw them regularly in the beginning. I needed support. Hell, I still need support with raising a child. But for some reason I shut them out, and locked that door. I stopped answering their phone calls, deleted all messages, didn't pick up my Muggle mail, avoided any family at all cost, the whole denial episode, really. But as the saying goes, whenever a door is closed, a window is opened. I was starting to find that window very comforting.

It was warmer when I pulled the car up to my Mum and Dad's house. They lived in a two storey, golf course like lawn. The lawn was exactly (how they managed it without magic I had no idea) two inches high. The pear trees on either side of the front walk were identically shaped, each with a large sphere of foliage. The door, however, was guarded by two enormous rose bushes (though nothing compared to my hedge) that were blooming with a sharp overabundance of red blossoms. They were trimmed into (what else?) spheres. Red, a stark contrast against the pristine white siding that ran along the bottom half of the house, followed by red once again on the second storey. It really didn't look as odd as it sounded.

Although I walked up to the house full of mingled dread and guilt, James skipped happily up to the front step and rang the bell several times.

"James," I scolded, frowning at him. "You know it's not polite to do that! You only ring once-"

The door swung open, cutting me off. "James! Hermione! How nice to see you! You received our invitation, I take it?" gushed Mum, bending down to hug Jamie after kissing me on the cheek.

_Invitation? What the hell is she talking about? I don't remember any invitation . . _

"Uh yes, Mum," I answered, stepping in on the front mat.

"Wonderful! I just know you're going to _love_ Ian. He's just what you've been looking for," Mum prattled, forcing me forward with her arm. She surveyed my clothing and frowned slightly. "But your clothes, dear, they're far from acceptable."

I looked down at the worn-in pair of jeans and oversized Rugby t-shirt. "Wait a minute," I began.

"But you can change those," she continued.

"What-"

"And don't worry, he'd in the study with your father."

"Mum."

"There'll be a lovely lunch-"

"_Mum_."

"-very light, of course,"

"_What _is going on?" I nearly shouted, stopping in the middle of the hallway, next to a set of Muggle pictures of James and me.

A look of surprise washed across my mother's face. "You--you didn't get the message?"

I shook my head. "No. You know I never check phone messages, Mum."

She pursed her lips and almost glared at me. "This was a . . ."

"Coincidence."

"Change your clothes, then." Her arms were crossed.

"But what _for_?" I insisted, throwing my hands up.

"Because Ian Gineger is a colleague of mine and your father's and you and James are here to meet him this afternoon."

I closed my eyes. Partly to shut out the pictures of James and me without Harry, partly because I was developing a severe headache. "You're setting me up again."

Mum looked uncomfortable. "Well, not, not quite. I merely think you need to be seeing other people. Expanding your horizon. We'll see what happens," she compensated, shrugging her shoulders. "But until then, you're simply here to meet him. No strings attached." Mum wrinkled her nose. "I remember when my mother used to try and set me up with air cadets. Not a pleasant experience."

I opened my eyes and with a flick of my wand (handily tucked into the bottom of my t-shirt) traded my jeans and t-shirt for a white tank-top and cardigan with a black skirt. James wanted to look more appropriate as well, so I changed his Manchester United football sweater (a gift from Dean for his fifth birthday) and rather dirty pants into a green and khaki outfit.

"That'll do." Mum continued down the hall, turning the corner left into the kitchen. I followed her after taking a deep breath and grabbing James' hand. He followed somewhat unsure.

"Go and tell your father lunch is ready," instructed Mum as she slipped an apron over her head and grabbed a pair of oven mitts. The smell of roasted chicken wafted through the kitchen. The table had been set already; the pale yellow dishes were placed around the perfectly polished cherry table, which was now partly hidden by a tablecloth.

"Sure thing," I answered, snatching a carrot stick from the table, leaving Mum to fuss about the vegetable arrangement, and exiting the room.

I walked into the study from behind Ian and Dad; they were deep into discussion about something trivial, the preferred kind of tooth-whitening procedure, I believe. I came round the wing-back leather chairs to kiss Dad on the cheek.

"Hi, Dad," I said as I pulled away.

James jumped into his lap to hug him. "Jamie!" he exclaimed, hugging him back "Lovely to see you, dear," Dad said over Jamie's shoulder. I smiled weakly.

"And you must be Hermione," said a rather rich voice, directly behind me.

Ian was just as I expected. Medium height, a little on the tall side. Sandy, brown sugar coloured hair. Early thirties. Pale blue eyes. Perfect teeth (my parents have teeth issues). Black jeans. Striped, light blue cotton shirt.

I turned to address him. "Yes. You must be Dr. Gineger."

"Ian, please," he replied, standing and offering his chair to me. I politely declined with a wave of my hand.

"I just came in to let you know that lunch is ready," I said promptly, making eye contact. They were very blue. "We'd better go. It's best still hot."

Ian smiled and motioned for me to exit the study first, Dad and Jamie followed at a slightly subdued pace.

"And that was the last time that cat ever climbed the tree!" roared Dad, laughing profusely at his own joke. He was retelling the time Crookshanks scaled the fifteen foot evergreen in our backyard. I never found that story amusing.

Ian was laughing, a little on the hard side, just to be polite. I knew he didn't understand the length of amusement Dad was able to pull from it. I pushed the broccoli around in the cream sauce, rearranging the broomstick I had previously created with three leaves of spinach, a chicken bone, two cucumbers, and a crust of hardened garlic bread.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ian smile at my current occupation; he was bored as hell too. Good. At least we'd have something in common.

"I'll just clear the dishes, Richard, if you wouldn't mind helping?" said Mum, raising an eyebrow.

"Can I help too?" asked James eagerly, shoving the rest of his carrot into his mouth and pushing his fork and knife onto his plate.

"Of course sweetie. Just take your plate over, and then you can help with the washing up," replied Mum, balancing mine and Ian's plates on top of hers. All three of them left within seconds of each other.

I didn't wait for the awkward silence. I picked up my white wine glass by the stem and looked at the pictures on the living room wall. There was one of Mum, Dad and me on vacation in France. Me and Gin, two days before my wedding, arranging flowers in the kitchen. Harry, Ron and me at our Hogwarts Graduation. James, when he was three days old. James, when he was a year and a half, sitting with me and Ron. Ginny, pulling James in that red wagon when he was four.

"Is he your only child?" asked Ian, leaning on the corner of the wall, watching me watching the pictures.

Even though I was startled, I tried not to look it. "Yes," I answered, not leaving much of a bridge for conversation.

"Looks like both of you," he started, taking a sip of his own wine.

I drained my glass. It was too sweet. Harry never liked really sweet wine. I hated it. "Yes he does," I replied, pointing the base of my wine glass at the solo picture of both Harry _and_ I.

"How long?"

I swallowed, a grim smile across my face. "Six years."

"James is . . "

There was a pause.

"Five."

Another prolonged pause.

"What happ-"

"Missing person. Suspected homicide. Police never had any clues."

"Oh. I'm terribly sorry." Too quickly.

"Everyone is."

Now, a stunned pause.

"Not meaning to be intrusive, but you've not seen anyone since then?"

I closed my eyes. _God bless you mother. You do find the _most_ irritating ways to infiltrate my life._ "No, I've been living the single parent life ever since."

"It's hard, isn't it?"

I turned to face him, slightly shocked by the compassion in his voice. "Yeah, it is. Tough. Really tough. I just – I just explained to him what happened to his dad. Tomorrow's the sixth anniversary. Not much cause for celebration."

Ian shook his head. "No, but a chance to move on. I know what it's like to feel like you do right now--my wife died four years ago."

My face must have betrayed what I was thinking.

"Car crash," he returned. "Killed instantly. I'm not sure what would have been worse though. Having her hooked up to a machine, or never being able to see her again."

I thought in silence for a moment. "I don't even have a place to visit," I said softly, tears welling in my eyes.

His mouth formed into a reply, but I brushed past him and sat down at the table, just as Mum, Dad and James returned from the kitchen, bearing dessert.

Dessert was rather quiet.


	4. Chapter 4

The drive home was quiet too.

I was terribly unsure of what to do about Ian. He was nice, settled, secure . . . but I wasn't about to make any decisions until after tomorrow. Then – then I'd re-evaluate.

We didn't get home directly. Traffic was hell. It was three o'clock – an hour after we left – when I pulled in front of our house. James slid off his seatbelt and pelted out of the car, through the gate up to the front door, picking the spare key out of the flower pot. He was struggling with unlocking the door, but I knew he wanted to show me he could do it. I lingered by the car, taking in the rest of the yard.

The short stone wall that barricaded our lot from the sidewalk was broken only by a creaking metal gate. I had always wanted something like this. Something imperfect. Something picturesque and lovely and totally unlike the house I grew up in.

That's why either of the two gigantic oak trees, on both sides of the walk (slightly staggered, varying distances from the flagstone path) were ideal for a tree house. I had always thought Harry and James would construct one. With a rope ladder and everything. But Ron would have to. There always had to be a substitute.

Of course, I had charmed the lawn to stay at one height all year long. And to be a brilliant shade of emerald green. The flowers, however, were the result of my hard work. I refused to use nothing other than Muggle methods on the riot of colour blooming throughout the yard, both front and back. Harry would have liked to mow the grass. He would have liked the idea of being the perfect family man. Of having a son with living parents.

Nuts about security, he was. He put so many spells on our house, I'm not even sure Dumbledore could remove them all. That's why the front key was in the flower pot. Harry, James or I could access the key, but no one else. And lord only knew what would happen if anyone tried to break in.

"Got it!" James swung open the door in triumph, grinning at me as I walked from the car to the front door. I smiled back at him, my arms folded across my stomach as I inhaled the thick, sweet, almost visible warm afternoon.

"Nice job, darling," I replied, ruffling his hair with my hand as I entered the house. James ran down the hallway, his footsteps echoing off the walls and wood floor. I closed the door behind me; it shut with an encouraging thud.

"Jamie," I called as I made my way into the sitting room, the first left upon entering the house.

"Yes Mum?" he answered, shouting from his bedroom.

"Bring a book to the sitting room and I'll read it to you."

"Okay," he answered once again, sounding slightly more cheerful.

I settled myself on the white sofa in front of the window. The curtains hung limply in front of the glass, as though they too were drained from the overbearing heat outside. There was a clattering of footsteps down the hall, and Jamie ran through the French doors leading to the sitting room, nearly knocking his elbows into the glass panels.

He tackled the ottoman, chucking his book at me simultaneously. I caught it, glanced at the cover, _The Velveteen Rabbit_, and smiled in spite of myself. It had been my favourite book as a child. Now it appeared to be one of Jamie's favourites as well.

"Nice choice, sweetie," I said, patting the cushion beside me.

James hopped up onto the couch and snuggled in beside me. "Thanks Mum."

I tipped my cheek to touch the top of his head, and he wrapped his small hands around my arm, settling down for a good cuddle and hopefully a nap.

Looking at my son out of the corner of my eye, I couldn't help but think how much he looked like his father. Yet so much like me. He caught me looking at him, and his face broke into a grin. I smiled back at him, and began to read.

"There was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen. On Christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the Boy's stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming . . ."

A creak in the hallway woke me out of a shallow sleep, and it took a second for my eyes to clear. James was lying across my lap on his back, his mouth wide open, eyes shut, hair stuck at a very strange angle. I moved my head, stretching my arms as I looked around for the source of the creak. There was nothing visible; the entire sitting room was empty. A kind of comfortable silence had fallen over the house, cloaking everything in a sort of unspoken complacency.

I took a deep breath in, deciding that I must have been imagining the sound when there it was again. A creak, as though someone was stepping down the hallway. My heartbeat quickened, and I slid James off my lap, cast a protective spell on him, and got up to investigate.

Pausing in the doorway, my wand out, I steadied myself. It had been so long since I'd used defensive magic. It wasn't that I was afraid it wouldn't come back to me; I didn't doubt my abilities. It was just that I wanted to know _why_ – something in me rebelled at needing to use it _now_. Now, six years after the war. Six years after I'd been left a widow. _ Six years_.

My heart was racing – it was useless to try and slow it down. My mind whirled with thoughts of Death Eaters as I jumped in to the hallway to confront the assailant in my house, wand extended.

It was only Draco.

"For Merlin's sake, Hermione, what on earth are you doing?" He was panicky, his eyes wide and afraid. I'd have been afraid too with a wand at my throat. I withdrew it and placed it back up the sleeve of my cardigan.

"How did you get in?" I hissed, waving my arms about. "How in the _hell_ did you get in?"

He smiled grimly at me. "Spare key," he said softly, holding it up as evidence. "You gave me one. Remember?"

I nodded, signalling that I remembered. "I wasn't sure of who was here. And I just thought . . . with it being tomorrow that, well, they might want to be rid of us as well. No just rid of Harry. They'd want to try and finish the job," I ended, pushing down the knot in my throat.

"Hermione, they're all gone. There's no one else who'd want to hurt you, who'd want to hurt James. Hell, they've all been killed. Some by me. And I'm not a fan of killing. I'm not like some of those Aurors who get a rush when they let loose a burst of green light. If it had been my choice, I'd have never taken a life. But some lives had to be taken in order to defeat Voldemort, in order to ensure the safety of everyone." At this, Draco grabbed my hands in an attempt to stop me from wringing them, and held them tightly. "All you need to remember," he whispered, his voice thick, his eyes trained on mine, "all you need to remember is that we're here for you. _I'm_ here for you. And you'll get through this."

I turned his words over in my head, trying to make them fit in the jigsaw puzzle of my marriage and my family. I _knew_ they were right. I _knew_ that I would be okay. I'd somehow survived the last five years, hadn't I?

"The . . the first year was the hardest," I murmured, turning to gaze at my feet.

"I know," began Draco, a stilted laugh spilling from his lips, an ironic smile twisting his face. "You wouldn't talk to any of us for three weeks." His tone became grave. "You really worried me. Everyone else too."

I half smiled, running my tongue over my teeth. "It doesn't get any easier, you know. It just hurts less often."

Draco pulled me closer, tucked my head under his chin, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

"All the grief counsellors, all the Professors, Ministry officials, school mates, the so-called sympathetic public . . . they all said it would get easier. Or, if it didn't get easier, that I would somehow accept it. But I haven't. I've just learned to live with it," I trailed off, my eyes pricking. "Damn, I miss him. I just – I wish he was here, right now. Why did he have to go? Why did he have to leave me – leave _us_? Is there a reason, a real reason, why he had to go?" I hunched my shoulders under Draco's embrace. And why couldn't they _find_ him? Why couldn't they just find a single scrap of evidence that he had… had died?" I looked up for a second at Draco's translucent gaze, then dropped my eyes in hopelessness. "Because that's the worst part. I always have that little bit of hope, there's always that slight possibility that he might still be out there somwhere," I sighed, a lone tear tumbling down my cheek, "And that's what's killing me slowly, every day." I took a deep breath to steady myself, but an unexpected lump in my throat burned my eyes, and it took all of my courage to not cry.

There was silence for several minutes as Draco took in what I had said, and I chewed over my words. Then, just as I moved to look up at him, he bent his neck to see my face.

And he kissed me.

It was damp in the garden; a perfect evening for hamburgers, so James and I barbequed a few. He was off in the sandbox, playing with his sandcastle in the cloud of scent wafting from the rose hedge. I took a sip of my iced tea, swirling the ice cubes around in the glass so they rubbed against the sides and made a whirring noise. Initially, I was focused on the noise I was making, but my thoughts soon drifted to the afternoon. When Draco had kissed me.

Well, _he _hadn't kissed me. Our lips kind of met, and then he'd pressed forward, deepening it. And I'd kissed him right back.

It had been bound to happen, though, right from the beginning. He'd been there for me after Harry's disappearance on that fateful twenty-third of July, stood by me like the brother I'd never had. Harry had never even known I was pregnant, making his sudden loss doubly hard to bear. And James had been born the following March. My son had been only four months old on the first anniversary of his father's death, and in all that time it had been Draco who stood in for my husband.

I had to face it now. Tomorrow would be the sixth anniversary of his death. Anniversaries were supposed to be celebrations – full of delight in the passing of another wonderful year in the company of one's spouse. But for me, anniversaries always meant solemn remembrance, tears, and memorials. Last year had been the biggest one. Five years since the end of the War. Five years since the Ministry had been corruption free (or so they said). Five years since the last wizard had died in battle. _My husband_. The Daily Prophet had wanted an interview; they had done a five-page spread on war veterans and their families. Two pages for Harry, they'd promised. I had torn up the owl and had Ron deal with them. Needless to say, they hadn't bothered me this year.

The Ministry never sent a representative to beg my appearance at a public memorial either. On the first anniversary of the destruction of Voldemort, now officially celebrated on July 24th, I received several flowery letters requesting my appearance at the first public memorial. Of course, I hadn't thought about why they wanted _me_ there, initially. They persisted until the day before the memorial, when I nearly hexed them out of my house. (I later found out that foreign dignitaries, namely a very suave Italian model-turned-wizarding-ambassador named Vencentio de Griandi, were in attendance. He was in the market for a wife. Oddly enough, he had no idea that the Ministry was trying to play match-maker with its favourite war widow, and sent me a very, very nice apology along with some outrageously expensive shoes and an invitation for me to stay at his villa near Florence whenever I was in the area, with any guests I desired.)

I had wanted to keep James away from the unnecessary evils of the Wizarding world as long as I could. I hadn't wanted him to be like Harry, not understanding why he was a wizard when he started Hogwarts, so his magical exposure was monitored by Molly, Ron, Ginny and myself. Charlie's twin girls, Sarah and Natalie, got along splendidly with him, as did George's boy Alexander. Dean had great fun taking him to a community Quidditch match every other Saturday. James had already itched to be in the air when Ron and Ginny showed him their old Comet Jr. 620, a broom that topped out at six km/h and three feet high.

And I had always imagined Harry teaching our son to fly.

It wasn't as though I hadn't dealt with the loss; quite the opposite, really. Every day I had been confronted with memories of Harry. Every day I had moved on in little ways. But recently I had caught myself thinking "What if Harry was here" or "Harry would know what to do". I hadn't even done that after he went missing. Probably because I thought he'd come back safe, just like he always had before. Now I was stuck in that rut again, that day-before-the-day I received the notice. And I had no idea why.

_Dear Mrs. Potter, _it had begun.

_We regret to inform you_ the first sentence had started. And I'd known what to expect even before I finished it.

_We regret to inform you that your husband, Harry Potter, was reported missing in action shortly before 11:30 last night, and is now presumed dead. Everything that could be done to locate him was attempted, but no results were achieved. It is through his gallant actions that Voldemort's reign was ended and peace was restored throughout the world. If there is any way we can assist you through this difficult time, please contact the Ministry's Veteran's Affairs, headed by Alan Wolder. _

_Sincerely, _

_Admiral Jason Higgins, Wizard Fighting Forces Chief-of-Staff_

It was almost more of a rally-the-troops condolence, not a genuinely heartfelt one. I still had that note. It was in there with the Daily Prophet clippings Molly had given me. The ones that weren't offensive, but comforting. They were in a box in the attic along with thousands of letters of condolence. Most of them I hadn't even bothered to open, but somehow I could never bring myself to bin them. So they sat there, collecting dust just like the memory of Harry collected dust, until I cried for him again and it was once again washed clean.

Memory is one thing. Relentlessly hanging onto a life that has long passed is another. Now, I had to draw the line. In fact, I had the feeling I had drawn it long ago; all that remained was to find it, step over it, and move into the next phase of my life.

Determined not to cry, I took a sip of my lemonade and steeled myself for a few hours more. James would be asleep soon, and then I could let go.

Let go of Harry.

Let go of my dead marriage.

Let go of the ghosts . . . and wash him clean.


	5. Chapter 5

When I woke up, I was in bed, safely tucked underneath the covers. Alarm shot through me, and I flipped back the covers and slid out of bed, landing on a fuzzy rug. _Rug? I don't have a rug here; I've only ever put my slippers here._ I shook my head, thinking I must be imagining the softness of the flooring. But when I moved to turn up the covers, they were different. They were a light green shade, whereas I'd always had white ones. And the walls, they had never been that funny beige colour . . .

I opened my bedroom door (which I never shut, regardless, because James might need me in the night) and walked down the hall, taking in all of the small changes with confusion. The pictures on the wall were different. I didn't recognize any of them. Our wedding picture was there; I'd put that picture away four years ago. But there were others, too. One especially caught my eye. Inconspicuous, to all who didn't know, but it was there. To me, it stood out. It was . . . _No, it can't be. It can't be. He . . . he never saw James. He suspected that I was pregnant, but he never actually found out that I had the baby. He never saw James. He wasn't _there_! He wasn't!_

But he _was_ there. In living colour. The picture that stood out so remarkably for me was a family one. Harry and I, lying on the floor in the sitting room at Christmas, with James between us. All three of us were laughing, and our smiles shone vividly through the glass. I had never taken this picture. I backed away, down the hall towards the kitchen, shaking my head because I knew this wasn't right. I knew this was the way it should have been, not the way it _was_. Not the way it turned out to be.

My head hit something solid; I had backed into a wall. I looked forward, straight into the kitchen, as the smell of fried chicken with peppers, one of my favourite dishes, wafted into the hall. All of the lights were on in the kitchen, and there were a few bowls beside the sink. I pushed myself forward, through the kitchen door, and was once again confronted with change.

All of my dishes were a pale yellow colour. I had bought them at a sale the Christmas after James was born. The table was set, but not with yellow dishes. They were clear glass, simple and unfussy like the plain white duvet I had previously had on the bed. Not only the dishes, but the table, too, was different. Harry and I had found a wonderful old harvest table, at least eight feet long, before we were married. Now I kept it in the dining room which adjoined the kitchen, and adjusted the size according to how many guests I had. This table was a basic rectangle, constructed from walnut, with high-backed chairs.

_Too high for James . . . I would never have bought that table until he was older . . . why the hell is it here?_ Placing my palm against my forehead, I closed my eyes, sheltering them from the light, and focussed on the touch of my hand. It was real. _I _was real. This house _appeared_ to be real. Blood rushed into my head, and I could feel my heart pounding.

"But it _isn't_, is it?" whispered a small voice in my ear.

I jumped, opening my eyes to the bright light, whirling around in the centre of the kitchen, looking for the source. I was alone with the fried chicken and peppers.

My head was throbbing; the adrenaline coursing through my body was causing me to shake; I felt the scars come up, come out of their hiding places and try and attack my memories. Trying to figure out what was going on was taxing all of my energies. I rubbed my eyes with the heels of my palms and walked into the dining room.

There was a rug underneath the table. I _hated_ rugs underneath the table. I myself spilt food sometimes, and James would have made a complete mess of it. I was far too practical to buy a rug I'd spend all my time cleaning.

The front door opened and closed, and then opened and closed again.

"Sweetheart, I'm home!" called a familiar voice. It was comfortable. Gorgeous. Soft. Low. But there was no conceivable way that I could be hearing that voice when he was gone. When he didn't really exist. When for the past six years, I'd been trying to pull myself out of the hole he had left and move on with my life.

"Hermione?" he called as he hung his coat up. I heard the squeak of the closet doors. "Hermione, are you in there?"

I backed up, staring manically around the kitchen, looking for a way out. I slid my hands blindly over the chairs, the table. A dish slipped off and crashed to the floor.

He ran in. His eyes were so compassionate. So perceptive. And they were looking straight into mine.

When I woke up, I couldn't breathe. I was alone in my bed, under my familiar white comforter, sun pouring through the window. I had imagined it.

On the bloody twenty-third of July. On _the_ day.

'Imagined' was probably the wrong word.

_Received a vision,_ Trelawney would have said.

_Load of shit,_ Harry would have said.

I couldn't help but side with Harry – Trelawney had always been an old fraud.

I leaned my head against the wall. It was so strange to be sitting here, calmly accepting the fact that Harry was gone, that he was never coming back. That he would always be a memory, and nothing more.

I glanced at the clock; it read 4:33. The sun wasn't even up yet, but there was no way I was going back to sleep. Sliding off the bed and into my slippers and housecoat – which I wore by force of habit – I left my room, checked on James, and headed for the kitchen. My knees shook slightly as I remembered this day six years ago.

_No_, I scolded myself. _No, you cried last night. Last night you mourned, today you'll remember with James, tomorrow you will move on._ Absently pulling a mug out of the cupboard, I flicked the kettle on and gazed out at the sunrise. It was so distorted in the city – Hogwarts was a whole different story. There the sky was painted brilliantly with colour as the sun rose; pink bleeding into orange, purple shot with gold drifting into blue. In London, all I could make out was a fuchsia haze with some lighter bits. It could have been the sunrise; it could also have been smog.

With a rushing whistle, the kettle finished boiling. I looked around the kitchen, remembering my dream about Harry. It had seemed so real, so poignant, so clear . . . but it was just another memory clawing at me, trying to shred all sanity and all hope of moving on.

And then there was Draco. That about summed it up – he was just there, floating in the fuzzy part of my focus. The kiss had been . . . unexpected, strange, wonderful. But still just a kiss. It hadn't been a promise, it wasn't meant to be an invitation, and it certainly hadn't been a proposal. But did he know that? Anyway, it wasn't fair to him, nor to anyone else, particularly James, that I couldn't let go of Harry. It wasn't even fair to Harry, because my continual attachment to him would keep his spirit earthbound until I could move on. My selfishness was getting in the way of my reason. It was time for a change.

There was only one room on the upper floor – I had reserved it for James when he might want more space. With my mug of tea in hand, my housecoat pulled unnecessarily tight, I ascended the stairs with it in mind. Currently it held all of the things belonging to Harry I hadn't been willing to part with, but which I couldn't bear to see on a daily basis. My hand ran along the hall rail, my breathing coming faster and my throat feeling tight.

The door was at the end of the hall. A dim white colour, the paint had faded and cracked from years of neglect. The door handle was as old as it was ornate; it was a lion's head, yawning to friends, baring its golden teeth at foes. My eyes stung, and I turned the handle. It was stiff, creaky; to me it sounded defiant. The lock clicked, the door swung back, and a dark, musty room opened to the dim light of early morning. I felt the wall to the right side of the door and found the light switch – the bulb had burnt out. I pulled my wand from my housecoat pocket and pulled aside the curtains, eradicating the smell with a quick spell.

Dust puffed up in clouds in the ever-strengthening sunlight. As my eyes slowly adjusted, the room swam into focus. On the wall behind the door hung Harry's Quidditch robes. Once a bright red and gold, they now hung lifeless, not faded but dirty. Behind them, on the closet door, was a poster of the English Quidditch team. The players flew around the pitch, continually beating the French team by at least three hundred points. The wall opposite the door contained two windows. Directly below the windows stood two trunks – one was Harry's old school trunk, and the other held a set of Quidditch balls engraved with the Chudley Cannons logo (a wedding present from Ron). The right hand wall was covered in photos, certificates, newspaper clippings and posters. He'd arranged that shortly after we bought the house. Harry had insisted this be the "bonus room", essentially a place for us to house all of our magical items not suitable for display in a primarily Muggle household.

The wall opposite of the windows held a large desk, book shelves, a cabinet and some extra chairs. I took a few tentative steps into the room, brushing off the chairs by sheer force of habit. Underneath the rickety green rocking chair sat his favourite pair of shoes. I ran my hand over the books filling the shelves – all the ones he'd kept from school, all the ones he'd bought about Quidditch. A swirling orb, which could only be a crystal ball, sat precariously on the desk. This relic from Divination class was surrounded by piles of scrolls – all maps, documents and summonses that he had kept from his involvement with the Order. Lying across several chairs was his cherished Firebolt, covered in a thick layer of dust. Beneath it sat his broom polish, tail clippers and navigation devices.

The cabinet was next, full of a variety of items ranging from brass scales to an oddly transfigured rubber duck. Behind his glass vials on the third shelf up was an autographed photo and letter from Victor Krum, now a world-famous Auror as well as Quidditch player. Krum had sent Harry a letter about a possible position on the Bulgarian Quidditch Team as soon as he graduated from Hogwarts – the picture was mine, something I'd received two months into sixth year. I never did find out why he sent it; nor did I want to.

Harry's sneakoscope sat dull and silent on the highest shelf, next to the sock he had previously muffled it in. His watch lay beside the moving, laughing, happy group of seventh-year Gryffindors. I picked up the photo with a bittersweet smile – remembering times not nearly so evil as the ones that would follow. By the end of our seventh year, we had lost four classmates. We would lose so many more.

The room even smelled of him. I thought that it was merely a fabrication on my part, but when I opened the closet I nearly dropped to my knees. There, some of his clothing was neatly stacked. What wasn't there I had given to charity. That had been a wrench.

The centre of the room was piled with boxes – things Harry hadn't yet unpacked when he'd gone missing, boxes of photos, and items belonging to his parents which he had only recently acquired from his maternal grandparents' house.

They had died before Harry's birth, and Lily and James had inherited their house. In it, Lily and James had kept multiple items which they did not want to take to Godric's Hollow with them. This abandoned house in the country now belonged to Harry, and therefore to me, but I had no idea where the key was. The deed was stashed somewhere in Harry's vault in Gringotts, along with the fortune left to him by his parents. Upon Petunia's death, Harry received the house as inheritance (it had been tied up with Petunia because she had been Harry's legal guardian). But that was four months before we were to be married. I don't think he even went to the funeral, let alone visited the house now belonging to him.

On top of the boxes were various long, thin, brown paper packages, all containing broomsticks. Hanging off a standing mirror was the suit Harry had worn for our wedding, carefully stored in a garment bag. Beside the mirror, four boxes of letters spilled on the floor. I was sure that nearly every letter ever written to him was there; a detailed, if slightly edited, version of his life. The one I picked up was from Sirius. Another catch in my throat, even though he'd been gone for over 10 years. I pulled a box over to the rickety green rocking chair and began to read.

How long I sat there I don't know, but I had gotten halfway through the first box of letters before James found me. He was so quiet I almost didn't hear him come in.

He yawned, one fist clamped tightly on the arm of his favourite teddy.

"What 'cha doing, Mum?"

I looked up, shaken out of my thoughts, and smiled at my son. "I'm going through some of your Daddy's things. Do you want to come and see as well?"

He nodded and climbed up on my lap. I grabbed a packet of photos and reviewed them, one by one.

"Who's this?" I quizzed, a very vibrant, very alive picture in my hand.

"Mum," he answered happily.

"Good one. Now, who's _this_?"

"Uncle Ron."

"Mmhm. This one?"

"Auntie Ginny and Dean."

"Now this is a hard one. Who's here?"

A small, determined frown of frustration creased his forehead. "That's," he began. "That's Uncle Ron. And Dean. And . . . is that . . . Daddy?"

I nodded when he looked up, my eyes dry, mouth sad. It was starting to hurt less. Mostly a dull ache now, not an open, throbbing wound. But today - regardless of how much I'd healed - today would always hurt like hell. "You don't know the other people?" I asked, knowing the answer.

"No."

"That's Neville – he was a really good friend of your Dad's," I continued, shifting James to my other knee.

"Oh." James's face became slightly puzzled. After a moment, he spoke again. "Did he die too?"

I nodded, my eyes glassy now. "Yes Jamie, Neville died in our seventh year, fighting in Hogsmeade. Remember the Wizarding town I told you about?"

"Yes," he said before sliding off my lap to examine the contents of an open box, losing interest in the photo and its remaining inhabitants, Seamus and Charlie.

Pushing my hands on my knees as I stood up, I glanced around this room which teemed with memories. It was time to clean it out.

"Jamie?"

"Yes Mum?" Now, he was kneeling amidst bottles of ink, old quills, packets of letters and hundreds of moving photos.

"Would you like to tidy this room today? I'm going to organize Daddy's photos, and you can help put his brooms on the wall.

James spun around, his eyes bright. "Will you use magic?" He was so excited he was vibrating.

I smiled at our boy, and my son. "Yes Jamie. But you have to get dressed first."

"Okay!" His chiclet teeth grinned at me for a moment before he tore out of the room. His footsteps echoed as he sprinted down the stairs, landing with a thud, and tore around the corner.

I followed Jamie at a slower pace, grabbing my mug before proceeding to the kitchen. I felt like having oatmeal today.

The room upstairs was looking much better, thanks to a few skilful cleaning spells and some well-needed organization. Now the centre of the room was clutter-free, all the photos boxed and stored in the newly enlarged closet, every letter meticulously filed by a wave of my wand, and Harry's brooms hanging on the wall above his Quidditch robes.

Currently, the animated boxes of letters were jostling for position in their section of the now walk-in closet. Jamie was yelling while running in circles, enrobed in a Chudley Cannons nightshirt, my old dragonskin gloves and a Gryffindor tie (the latter clashing violently with the nightshirt).

All I had left to do was move furniture. Careful to avoid my screaming, psychotic five-year-old, I levitated a cushy armchair to sit between the windows. The bookshelf I had relocated to beside the closet. The cabinet was still magically filing all items not thrown out in alphabetical order – the books James and I had done already. The desk was ordered, free of clutter. I had arranged fresh parchment, ink and quills on the surface, and tucked up the green chair under it.

In the centre of the room sat a table I had conjured. Surrounded by chairs, yet big enough to hold three cauldrons, it took precedence over the other items in the room. After altering a few pieces of furniture, I realized what was missing: a fireplace. One look at the wall of photos, a few elegant wand movements and several muttered Latin words, and a blazing hearth sprang up, throwing a cool breeze across the room in what was becoming a very sticky July day.

James came to a dead stop. "M – m –" he tried, but words failed him. It was, I had to admit, pretty big magic.

"What d'you think?" I asked him, crouching down to meet his eye level. Saucer-eyed, he contemplated me for a moment, but remained silent.

"Alright?" I prompted, taking his gloved hands in mine. Jamie only nodded before burying his head in my shoulders. After a moment, he pulled away, voice recovered.

"That . . . that was pretty cool, Mum. Can I do that?"

I smiled even wider, pulling him towards me in a tight hug. "Someday," I whispered in his ear. "Someday. Sooner than you think, and a lot sooner than I'd like."

I let go of him and cast my eyes around the nearly completed room.

"Now, Jamie, if you help Mum tidy that wall," I said, pointing at the photo-caked one, "then I'll do some magic, and you can help me." He didn't look convinced. I pulled another card. "And, I'll help you get a box of things together for you to dress up in at home."

His eyes sparkled. "Like fancy dress clothes?" he queried.

"Sort of," I answered, leaning against the table.

"So you could make me play clothes? Like, whatever I want?"

"Maybe. You'll get some of my stuff, some of your Dad's stuff, and you might – _might_ – get some things that I've transfigured for you. But only if you help."

He was already taking down pictures, tacks in a pile on the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

When Ron and Ginny arrived that evening, they brought bad news along with the good.

"What d'you mean I'm _required to be there_?" I snarled, slamming a frying pan down on the stove, upsetting the sauteing green onions. I turned to stare at Ron, and saw from the look on his face that he too could not decipher the Ministry's subpoena to appear at the Remembrance Ceremonies on the following day.

His face red from the heat of the stove, he cast his eyes down as he mumbled out an answer.

"Well, you know, it has been six years since anyone other than the Order has seen you. Maybe it'd be good, for you to get out." I stared, open mouthed, before clenching my jaw involuntarily, angry because he was right. Ron stood up straight very hastily, pulling down on his shirt nervously. "Of course, there's no reason for them to _require you to be there_, they could have just asked. Nicely," he covered, his eyes avoiding mine. "All I'm saying is that – maybe… you should consider going. All you'll have to do is sit there for half an hour and then you can be on your merry way. I'll take you, and sit with you, if you like."

I licked my dry lips, contemplating his words. Over the past six years, I'd avoided these kinds of public events entirely. It wasn't specifically to keep James tucked away from the public eye (although that had been a major factor initially); rather, it was to save myself the aggravation of dealing with hoards of people who would inevitably try their best to thank me once again for Harry's efforts. The thing is, they were thanking me for what _Harry_ did, not for what _I _did.

What Harry did for the world was easily comparable to what Guttenberg's printing press did for literature. Or Haydn's contribution to Sonata form. Even what Michelangelo bequeathed to future generations of painters. They're not thanking me for sitting behind a desk in the Department of God-knows-what shovelling reports into piles and occasionally taking on one that Bill allotted me. And they shouldn't thank me. The effort I put in to the war against Voldemort was mirrored by hundreds of others. Harry's . . . now Harry's effort was astounding, spectacular, magnificently self-sacrificial . . . yet nothing more than he would ever have considered to have been his job. In fact, it would have been less that what he considered to be his job.

And that was what it was all about, wasn't it? It was all about Harry, and Harry's commitment to rid the world of Voldemort. It was not about me, nor my actions during the past few years. The point of tomorrow, for me at least, was to remember Harry. How could I not go?

"You can take me," I said finally. "But you've got to sit with your department. You know that."

"This is a special occasion," Ron answered, brushing off my comment. "So, I'll collect you and James at what . . . nine thirty? The show starts at ten, I'll borrow a car from the Auror Unit, settle you lot in your front row seats and that's it! A few photos, some handshakes, a drink or two after the speech, mingle with the crowd . . ."

I chased him out of the kitchen with a temporary but nasty hex. Still glowering, I placed my hands on my hips and stared at the wall, trying to burn a hole in it.

A few minutes later, Ginny sauntered into the kitchen from the sitting room where she had been playing with James, yawning as she stretched her arms up over her shoulders. She gazed at me for a few moments before speaking.

"What _has_ that idiot brother of mine been saying?" she broke in as I was prodding the roast with a very cautious wand. When I didn't answer, she pulled herself up on the counter and continued. "It's about tomorrow, isn't it. Talk to me, Hermione." I violently stirred something that was boiling over and flicked my wand to send the plates over to the table. Ginny threw her hands up. "Oh, for Christ's sake Hermione! He just wants to see you somewhere other than here or at Mum and Dad's. He's only thinking about what's best for you. And for James." She sighed, leaning her head against the cupboard.

There was a moment's silence.

"It's been hard," I managed to squeak, cleaning up carrot peels.

"It's also been six years," answered Ginny, setting silverware and glasses on the table with a deft wand movement.

I looked her in the eyes for the first time since she'd entered the room, resigning myself to the fact that I'd be going. "Everyone's going to treat me like I'm glass."

She was licking icing from a spoon. "Mhm. And in a way you are."

"They'll tell James how brave his Dad was, how much he looks like him," I said, ignoring her previous comment.

Ginny nodded. "Yup."

"And Ron . . ." I said simply, letting the statement hang.

She rolled her head from one shoulder to the next. "What about him?"

"About his little power trip on photos and drinks and mingling and –" I started, only to be cut off by Ginny's held up hand. "What?" I snapped, starting to become very annoyed with the youngest Weasley.

"He's right. You can't just go to this thing and expect to get away without a few sympathetic officials, simpering requests for you to sign their nightgowns by middle-aged witches, and dozens of eligible bachelors trying to chat you up." Ginny slid off the counter and leaned against the door jamb. "These things are all expected. You know that – you've seen them before. But you were with Harry then. The one difference is that he's gone. To them, it's one giant publicity stunt. To you, it's a tribute to the memory of your husband."

I stood there, stunned, looking like a goldfish who had suddenly discovered a whole world outside his bowl.

"You need to remind them why they're taking the day off."

_When you try your best but you don't succeed_

_When you get what you want but not what you need_

"You need to give them a reason to remember."

_When you feel so tired but you can't sleep_

_Stuck in reverse_

"You need a speech, Hermione."

"_If there is any way we can assist you through this difficult time. . ._

"_We regret to inform you . . . missing in action . . . presumed dead . . ."_

_Speech, my arse_, I thought as we sat around the supper table.

She was right, though. So was Ron. And I had already known exactly what to expect, but still I gave into my persistent anger and used it as a shield to hide behind, an excuse to ignore the truth. A sorry, pathetic excuse because I _knew_ what was there, knew exactly what was expected of me should I go to the Remembrance Ceremonies. Ron was just the messenger – how does that saying go?

At least they didn't send a ruddy owl. They sent Ron instead. Not to compare him to a tacky note, and he was only trying to help. But Ginny's kick in the arse was much more effective, especially when she took on that _Mrs. Weasley_ tone, abruptly bringing me back to my senses. I realized, or rather acknowledged what I had already known deep down, that I had to go tomorrow. I had to take James. I had to say a few words. I had to help the people to remember, and help myself to move on.

As I passed the potatoes and carrots to Ginny, who was seated to my right, I caught James smiling at Ron. James, who would be thrilled to see _anyone_ on a more regular basis, was ecstatic to see Ron and Ginny. I'd told her everything about Ian, Draco, my parents, James and his questions, Harry's room upstairs . . . well, _everything_. I'd talked for so long that I burnt the garlic bread.

"So, Hermione," began Ron tentatively, as though he was asking a girl out for the first time. "What about tomorrow? Any new thoughts on the ceremony?"

"What's tomorrow?" asked James, his voice thick as he chewed a mouth of half-masticated food.

"Jamie, don't talk with your mouth full, and don't chew with it open," I answered sharply, stabbing a piece of lettuce rather violently. Turning to Ron, I answered his question. "We're going. Don't ask, don't push, don't judge – we're just going. See you at nine thirty?"

Ron's gaping mouth shut abruptly, and he collected himself enough to answer. "Sure – sure thing. Nine thirty."

I looked at him expectantly, waiting for more information on the following morning. He had busied himself with his plate, his eyes avoiding mine. Sighing, I broke the silence. "Where are we sitting?"

"Oh, you and James are up front, with Mum and Dad and a few other family members from the Order. Right behind the Minister, I think," he said easily, scratching his right temple. "Me and Gin, we're back with the Auror division – I'll see if I can get special clearance to sit by you. There should be around 800 people there, plus all kinds of photographers, journalists, and the entire thing will be broadcast over the Wizarding Wireless Network. Ginny said you'd like to say a few words?" Ron paused to swallow his food and take a large gulp of butterbeer.

"Mhm. Not long, a minute or two at most."

He started waving his fork in the air, a crouton perched precariously on the tip. "Okay, well that will probably happen just after the Minister's speech. Load of tosh, it'll be, but we suck up to the politicians regardless. So, after Lochland gives his speech, you go and say a few words, followed by a minute's silence, then the band plays something sad and mournful, and it's all done. No one actually cares about this, Hermione. It's only been six years, but they've managed to forget already."

I smiled grimly over my wine glass. "That's what I'm going for. They're not going to forget Voldemort, they're not going to forget Harry, and they're definitely not going to forget to remember."

Ginny shot a sidelong glance at me, tilting her head towards James.

I explained the situation very clearly. "Jamie, tomorrow you and I are going to a Remembrance Ceremony. Mum's got to give a little speech, very short mind, and after a few hours we'll get to go home." I shifted to the front of my chair. "Now, I want you to stick with me the whole time. We'll have our picture taken a few times, and some ladies and gentlemen" at this Ron snorted "might like to talk to you and I. Okay?"

James nodded, his eyes big and brown, his shirt stained with juice from lunch.

"Great," said Ron, surveying the scene while rubbing his hands together. "What's for dessert?"

Ginny kicked him under the table as I sent a death glare. "Ice cream, if you'd care to pick it up from Tesco's," I answered, clearing plates off. "You know where to go. And there's five pounds on the dresser in the hall."

"Tonight was great, Hermione," said Ron softly, standing on the step. "We should have George over next time."

I nodded as a warm wind wrapped its way around the house, rustling the hollyhocks, sending waves of scent from the flowering vine all around us.

"Speaking of that," he began, scuffing his shoe on the concrete. "George wanted you to come down, but you can speak to him tomorrow. He's looking for a new manager, and he thinks you might be the perfect candidate."

"Really?" I replied, raising my eyebrows. "That's lovely of him. I'll find him tomorrow, just as soon as the Ceremonies are over and I'm done being mauled by reporters."

Ron kicked a pebble off to the left. "Yeah, well, they're going to expect a reveal-all interview from you. You might as well call a press conference. But, like I said, tonight was great. Ginny really enjoyed herself – she's been on the rocks with Dean for a bit. Hopefully it'll straighten itself out soon; he's a really good guy. Well," he paused, wrinkling his nose. "He's good for her, anyway."

I smiled, reaching one hand out to tousle his hair. "You're cute when you worry about her," I said lightly, leaning against the door jamb, my arms crossed. "She doesn't know how lucky she is."

Ron shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at me, shaking his hair out of his eyes. "I worry about you too. About you and, and Malfoy," he spat, kicking a particularly large pebble with considerable force. "Ginny said I should ask you about that."

I swallowed hard, but I already knew what to say. "I won't give you any crap, mostly 'cause you won't believe it," I said carefully, examining my bare feet. "But I will tell you everything. We were friends, we kissed, and we're still friends. It was the first time since . . . well, in a long time, anyway. I haven't seen him since yesterday, and I don't intend on seeing him unless on a strictly friend-only basis." At this I glanced up at my best friend, whose features were uncharacteristically blank. "He's not for me, Ron. Harry was, and I've gotten past him. Now, I'm going to find someone new, someone to be a father to James. He needs someone. _I_ need someone."

Before I knew it, Ron's arms were around me tightly. I hugged him back, smiling into his shoulder.

"You don't know how relieved I am that you said that," he whispered. "I was afraid I'd have to go to his wedding or something – not exactly my idea of a good time."

I hugged him tighter.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: LIFSA stands for Location and Identification of Former Serving Aurors

It was just like one of those new dramas the BBC puts out every few months. A grimy street in a big city. A dilapidated bench cemented in front of a series of small, graffiti strewn storefronts. Barred windows, dead-bolted doors and trios of policemen on their daily beat were common – even more common than the probationary criminals and junkies in the shady parts of the alleys. Six o'clock on a mild summer morning.

William Canning was just one of the many Bobbies who traversed the more disreputable and derelict portions of London (the city of this particular feature). As it so happens, he was on his beat with partners Ted Griffin and Marty Helman, on the very morning which our story takes place.

Sergeant Canning was strolling past the aforementioned bench, his gaze roaming from left to right, skimming the entire sidewalk and occasionally venturing onto the street. He noticed the newly cracked window on McCribbins Pawn Shop, and then his eyes swayed back over to the empty bench. Sergeant Canning then glanced across the street, nodding at Ted Griffin, who was interviewing a witness to a recent break-in. When he returned his gaze to the bench once again, it was occupied. A man in his mid-twenties with striking blond hair and dark sunglasses was casually reading that morning's newspaper. Will stopped mid-stride, his eyes wide, mouth open.

As he had never been a man of many words, Will kept silent and thought over the possibilities. One, the man had been there all along. However, his dark shirt and newspaper, which would have readily camouflaged him in any other part of London, stood out here rather sorely. Will never missed anything when he was on his beat. There was absolutely no chance that he had missed that man either coming up or down the street, and he definitely hadn't crossed it. So, no, the man had certainly not been there the entire time. No reasonable explanation came to mind; Will ground his teeth in frustration. He was a damned fine police officer; what was wrong with him today?

_Moving on,_

thought our brilliant Bobbie. Option Two was that he had just gotten off of a bus – problem was, the bench was not anywhere close to a bus stop. And his third choice . . . well, if his third choice was correct, he'd tie his shoes together and hop down Oxford in his pants. William Canning's third alternative was this: that the silver-haired stranger had simply appeared out of nowhere. Just like in the movies. A special effect, only there was no stage crew here.

_Must be going barmy,_

he thought to himself. Shaking it off, Will continued on his trek down the street. It was perfect timing, too, for no sooner had Will rounded the cornerthan a little 'pop' sounded and the bench suddenly held two people. The newest occupant was blessed with a full head of hair the brightest shade of red, and just as the previous resident, was sporting a pair of sunglasses. Had Sergeant Canning been present, he most likely would have fallen over.

"Good morning," muttered our first bench-sitter, the one with the silver hair, as he folded his newspaper and set it on the bench beside him.

The other squinted before replying. "You do have a habit of picking the worst places to meet, you know that. Your policeman back there is going to jump off the nearest building before he believes what we've just done. You know how silly Muggles can be."

The silver-haired man smiled. "Of course. They'd never say anything to their authorities, and even if they did they'd be shut up in a nuthouse. Don't fret George, I've got this one under control. Just pretend we're MI-5."

George shook his head and glanced to his left, checking for passers by. "Bloody MI-5 you are too," he said under his breath.

The other man leaned back and smiled. "You know it Georgie, you know it."

George shoved his hands in his pockets and stared into his lap. "What did you want me here for, Draco? What's it this time? I'm getting tired of pulling all of this crap behind everyone's backs, and one day we're going to get caught, and Lochlan's going to string the both of us up."

Draco's newspaper rustled. His face lost any trace of a smile and it was a moment before he spoke again. "There's been a development with LIFSA. They think they've found . . ." he trailed off, leaning forward and rubbing his forehead with his left hand. George leaned back, stretching one arm out on the top of the bench as he removed his sunglasses. "They think they've found . . _him_."

The expression on George's face was difficult to interpret, it changed so often in the minutes that followed. Shock slid off of his face to be replaced by a brilliant smile, which in turn vanished into a mask of grim acceptance.

Several people walked up the sidewalk behind them. The silence between the two had a tangible, almost lifelike quality. Finally, Draco pushed up his sunglasses, revealing a haggard face and dark circles underneath his eyes. He'd clearly been up most of the night.

George opened his mouth, but was unable to come up with words. He shut it again, only to have Draco smile wryly at him and shake his head.

"I hear you have a job opening," said Draco.

George nodded. "Why is that important?"

"You were going to offer it to Hermione?"

"Yes, I was."

"Good. It was a great idea. But not anymore." The street traffic was becoming quite thick; they now had to speak slightly louder than normal to be heard. "Now," Draco began, rubbing his hands together, "now you're going to have it filled before you see her again. I've got a candidate back at the office – they pulled her from some third level entry, so she has no idea what's at stake."

George nodded again "We always seem to have a contingency plan, don't we? You tell me this," he said, pointing a finger at Draco. "Tell me what I'm supposed to tell _her_."

All he could do was shrug. "I've no idea. Tell her the position was filled before -"

"Well that one was obvious," snorted George.

Draco glared at him before continuing. "As far as you are concerned, the only thing I told you today was that Hermione wasn't to have a job. You don't know why, you just took the orders and went merrily along your way. Hermione," Draco began, staring out at the busy road, "Hermione is to know nothing. If you tell her . . . we're both likely to lose our jobs."

George whistled under his breath, and shifted his position on the bench so his elbows were on his knees and he was staring at the sidewalk. "Who gave you the right," he said slowly, easing his way into the conversation, "to play God in people's lives? What you're doing -"

"_We're_ doing," corrected Draco.

" – it's criminal! It's taking Hermione's life and James' life and putting them in a cage and monitoring their environment! What do you think," he breathed heavily, rage clearly contaminating all possibility of cooperation. "What do you think she's going to do when she finds out? You're all going to be there to watch her, aren't you? All of you, with your binoculars and camouflage in her garden hedge!" George broke off, shaking his head. "For God's sake, give the woman a break. Let her live her own life. Stop trying to control them like rats in a cage."

Draco was mute for a moment. "It's not just _me_, it's not just _them_, George. It's _you_ as well. Don't forget who you work for."

"I work for them. I don't make the decisions. And had you simply told me to deny Hermione the position I would have, most likely without question. But you had to spoil all my fun of doing a job I actually enjoyed. Let me tell you Draco," began George sullenly, but with resolve. "Let me tell you that this is the last assignment that I will ever do. After this, you're on your own. No more contacts in Diagon Alley."

George stood up, his expression harsh. "You're on your own, Mr. Malfoy. And I intend to keep it that way." And then he disapparated.


	8. Chapter 8

About the time that William Canning was settling down behind his desk, grease spotted newspaper full of fish and chips in front of him, the ceremonies were due to start.

He watched her from the back, sitting next to Molly, her son leaning against her. It wasn't right, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Not now, not so late in the game. And she was just ready to move onto someone new. That he knew for sure. She could push that kiss away, tell herself that he was just a friend, that both of them were in the wrong situation, but she'd come to the realization soon enough. Lord, he hoped she would. He had the moment his lips met hers. Before that, he hadn't admitted it to himself. Now he had no choice; she was on his mind all the time.

There must have been a thousand people there. Not to mention that it was broadcast over the Wireless Wizarding Network. I wasn't nervous as James and I climbed into Ron's Ministry car, or when Ginny straightened my wide-brimmed hat just before we found our seats. I wasn't nervous when people pointed and whispered as James and I passed by. I wasn't nervous when I saw Draco and felt a near overwhelming urge to kiss him. Again. So much for 'just a friend'. So much for 'it meant nothing'. Who was I kidding? He was the first man I'd been that close to in six years. Six _years. _And I needed him just as much as I wanted him.

I wasn't nervous when my name was called. But after I was done, that's another story entirely. It's one of my stranger qualities – I'm never _really_ nervous until after I'm finished speaking. I've always been that way.

As I fiddled with the note cards in my lap, Molly leaned over and squeezed my hand. I looked up at her with a watery smile as James let out a soft snore, his head leaning against my shoulder. Lochlan was still prattling. Little did I know that yesterday Ginny had fixed it with the Minister himself that I should be allowed to speak today. Molly was convinced he was after either Ginny or I. As I watched Lochlan, taking in his rather exaggerated coat tails and gleaming chestnut hair, I was certain that it was me he was after. What wizarding politician would dress as a Muggle on a Remembrance Day Ceremony unless he had an ulterior motive?

The shiny black shoes, the crisp collar, the yellow pin on his lapel, everything was a show of force, a show that wizards could function in both worlds. Added to this was the fact that Ginny would rather chew her foot off than date a politician. Publicity, I assumed, for I was certain it wasn't genuine affection. I tipped my head back, imagining the headlines – _"Minister Dates Potter's Widow"_ and _"Potter and Lochlan: A Battle For the Girl"_. Oh yes, the Daily Prophet would come up with something just as revolting if not more so. Molly thought my speaking today was my first step in. She was more paranoid than Ron, but at least hers was with good reason.

As Lochlan's speech wound down, I found myself thinking, once again, of Harry. Six was such an . . . unnatural number. Not like seven, the most magically powerful number, or five, the strong Roman Numeral _V_ that commanded armies. Thing is, he was right there, in my mind, as clear, as real and as handsome as ever. _The last time I saw him . . . _ I swallowed hard. It wasn't getting any easier, it was just becoming more normal. More mundane. The sliver you just can't pull out of your finger. The one that just sits and festers until the festering becomes second nature, and it doesn't hurt…would it ever not hurt?

It was the clapping that roused me. Whilst I was thinking of Harry, Lochlan had introduced me. I hadn't heard a word. Gently tipping James's head onto Molly's shoulder, I stood up and took my first steps towards the raised platform. Lochlan gave me his hand as he assisted me up the stairs. Once I was safely on stage, he removed himself with a dignified step back of the podium.

I had not opening joke, no quote, no touching story other than that of my own. I had nothing to lose, so I plunged in.

"Thank you, Minister, for allowing me to address the gathering today," I began, looking back at Lochlan. He flashed me a brilliant smile. I clenched my teeth in return and turned my gaze back onto the audience. "I know most of you are here to remember friends, relatives and comrades," I continued, "but put those loved ones aside, if you will, for one moment." The people stirred, obviously taken aback by my unexpected turn. "You are also here to remember Voldemort." At this there was an audible gasp. Lochlan cleared his throat and remained standing, and I picked up my position once again. "Whether you want to forget him, or you want to praise his downfall, he is in some aspect of your thoughts. On this sixth anniversary of the fall of Mr. Thomas Riddle, we must count our blessings. First, we now live in a safe, peaceful world. Second, we were privileged enough to know those who died trying to keep it that way. And we must remember them.

"Albus Dumbledore," I said after a deep breath, "was one of the greatest modern wizards of our time. His ideals of strength, courage, intelligence, love and honour will live on forever in the hearts of those who knew him. And now they will live on forever in the hearts of all. If you would look closely at the yellow pin that many of you are wearing," I said smiling, "you will find those five words engraved around the outside. And yes, it smells of lemons. As those of you close to him will remember, Dumbledore was a great fan of Muggle lemon drops." There was a ripple of laughter as people relaxed and allowed themselves to smile.

"Many of you knew my husband, Harry Potter. This day also marks the sixth anniversary of his disappearance. I know you all must be thinking that I have to learn to move on, learn to embrace his memory and put my energies to a use." I glanced at Molly; her face was full of apprehension. "And I assure you that I am trying, and as of late, through the help of close family and friends, I have been able to." At this I searched the crowd for Draco, but the familiar face evaded me. "Although he has never been located, there is one thing I refuse to give up, and that is hope. The hope that he is in a better place, in a good place, in a safe place. And I urge all of you to do just as I have, to move on and to hope. For if there is even the slightest chance, hope exists.

People in the audience were nodding and speaking quietly amongst each other. I saw my chance – I had them – and took it. "We may know them," I said with some presence, winding down my speech, "but so many don't. So many are out there right now, with no regard for the people who made the ultimate sacrifice. My son . ." I began, swallowing hard. "My son will never get the chance to know his father. So many people never had the opportunity to meet any of the fine men and women who made this world what it is today. The task now falls to us. We must take their torch, hold it high, and tell all the people who know nothing about our fallen heroes everything about them. It is our duty to them, to make their message heard, to make their lives count."

At this point my hands were shaking so hard I could barely see my notes. But I didn't need them now. I was done. Stepping back, I backed straight into the Minister, who motioned for me to stay on stage. It was impossible for him to speak over the applause.

"As you can see," Lochlan began, his deep voice quieting the commendations, "this young woman has made quite an impression on all of you. I would like to thank her for taking the time to write that rather inspiring speech," at this he turned to look at me, his eyes smiling in admiration, "on such short notice. Thank you all for coming today to commemorate our fallen heroes." His voice became all the more serious, a frown creased his forehead and he leaned on the podium as though for support. "Only when we learn from the past can we truly shape our own futures. I feel that that has been done today. Please try to find time next year to attend."

The crowd erupted into applause once again, whether for Lochlan or myself I was not quite sure. The Minister spun on his heel and offered me his arm, which I accepted because my knees were shaking so very terribly.

"I do hope, Mrs. Potter, that we may see each other again," began Lochlan very quietly after he had escorted me down the stairs. "I feel that you could make a very big impact on our Veteran's Affairs Department. We're missing someone with your kind of experience and compassion. Let me know if you're interested."

I looked straight into his shocking blue eyes and smiled. "I'd love that. And call me Hermione, please. No one's called me Mrs. Potter in . . ." I paused, gathering my thoughts, "a long time."

"Of course, Hermione. I must leave you now, I fear, before your family does tear you away. Good Afternoon, Hermione." He nodded, almost bowed, and strode off.

"And you say you can't give a speech," grinned Ron, pushing his way through a crowd before wrapping me in a bear hug. "You were fantastic," he whispered. I glowed at the compliment. I knew he truly meant it.

"Mummy!" cried James, hurling himself against my leg. I bent down and kissed his cheek, just as a flashbulb went off. I stood up, ready to fight off whoever was taking pictures, but Ginny already had it handled.

"Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but Mrs. Potter will not be taking any questions until her press conference, which will be held in the Longbottom Room on Level Three. Anyone who tries to harass her before then will be dealt with by her personal fleet of aurors." At this, Ginny turned and grinned at me before diplomatically shoving off the reporters. "Thank you for your patience, and we'll see you in an hour."

Without hesitating Ron wrapped his arm around mine, Ginny took hold of James's hand, and five black-cloaked wizards escorted us the lift. Several minutes later we exited on the fifth level and Ron took James and I to his office. It was small, yet comfortably furnished with a large desk and matching swivel chair, a small couch and several filing cabinets.

"Welcome to my humble abode," snivelled Ron in a terrible attempt at what he thought was a posh voice. I laughed and sank down onto the couch, tears pouring from an inner well that I thought was dry.


End file.
